Not While I'm Around
by nothingbutgoneness
Summary: Basically Klaine in "Bash" if Blaine's father were a crime lord. Spoilers for 5x15. Dark!Blaine. Mafia!Blaine. Violence. Homophobic language. Deaths of multiple minor characters (bet you can guess who). Sex. M for reasons stated above. Title from "Not While I'm Around" (obv). Honestly not sure how long this thing is going to be.
1. Chapter 1

**Not While I'm Around**

The best part about being Blaine right now is not the small but well-equipped army at his disposal, nor the years of training in several disciplines of martial arts, nor the tactical education he'd started receiving at age four. It's the connections. New York City hums with information, and Blaine Anderson has access to all of it.

He steps out of Kurt's hospital room, leaving the others to watch his fiancé not move, and starts dialing a number. "I need a favor."

"Favors are only favors if they get returned someday."

"I think you know I'm good for it." His voice is low, and in this particular instance he can pass it off as trying to stay quiet, but his voice is almost always low when he makes these kinds of calls. His voice may not be as high as Kurt's but it's still high, and he finds that he's taken more seriously when he uses his lower register.

"What can I do for you, boss?"

Normally he'd correct Lenny, say "I'm not the boss" with a laugh, but he just doesn't have the time. "I need you find a truck."

"To use?"

"I need its owner. Black pick-up. Seen around Bushwick and surrounding neighborhoods in Brooklyn. Been used in a number of gay bashings in the area. Don't know the make, model, or license plate."

Lenny whistles. "Shit, boss, that's not a lot to go off of."

"I want everyone on this, Lenny," Blaine growls, "everyone not on assignment. Your network is huge, and I want it talking _now_."

"Whatcha need this for anyway, boss?"

"Unless the favor you'd like to cash in is my motives, you don't need to know."

"Alright, alright, I'm on it. I'll call back as soon's I got something."

"You'd better." He hangs up and leans against a wall, breath coming out in short sighs. This shouldn't have happened. He was foolish not to have Kurt protected. As soon as the first gay guy was beaten up, two guys before Russ, he should have called someone up the food chain and had a guy or two put on Kurt. This happened because Blaine was careless. He'd been caught up in the invincibility of New York, the idea that with anonymity came safety. He of all people should know how wrong that is.

He goes back into Kurt's room and takes his place by his side.

* * *

It's another hour or two before Kurt wakes up, and Blaine's somewhat surprised to find that he doesn't feel less tense. It's just him and Sam in the room when Kurt's eyes flicker open tentatively, but even when Rachel, Mercedes, and Artie come running (and wheeling) in, sighing happily and smiling big, he remains tightly wound with nervous energy. Kurt's a little too groggy to pick up on it, but Sam sees, and pulls him outside when Kurt falls back asleep. "What's going on?"

"My fiancé's in the hospital, Sam," Blaine snaps, and he immediately regrets it. "Sorry, this isn't your fault."

"Yeah, well, it's not yours either, you know that?"

Blaine gives Sam a long, strange look. "I know."

"What are you planning?"

He's a tad too nonchalant when he says, "Who says I'm planning anything?"

"Bullshit. I saw you call someone earlier. Was is someone in your dad's organi—"

"Sh!" Blaine hisses sharply. "The things I tell you when I'm drunk and mourning a break-up should not be repeated in public, Sam."

"Please," Sam snorts. "If you think I didn't know that some serious shit was up with your family before you told me who your dad is, you're an idiot." Blaine doesn't say anything. "What're you planning?"

"I'm taking care of it, Sam, okay?" Blaine's fucking _tired_, he can't deal with Sam's questions right now. "I'm doing what I need to do to make sure my fiancé is safe."

Sam's quiet for a long time, until he says, "Are you gonna kill those guys?"

When Blaine doesn't answer, Sam walks back into the room.

* * *

It's late into the day after the attack when Burt arrives, and it's an hour after that that Blaine's phone rings. He excuses himself—Kurt's sleeping anyway, hasn't managed to stay awake for more than twenty minutes at a time—to go outside. He leans against the exterior brick of the hospital and answers the phone. "What've you got, Lenny?"

"We've narrowed it down to three possible trucks, but we can't get more specific without info."

"Kurt says it was four guys who attacked him, and he managed to get the last letter of the license plate, a Q."

"Kurt?"

Blaine rolled his eyes. "Does that help?"

Lenny hummed. "Yep, looks like we got one truck ending with Q. You want the details?"

"Email them to me. I have to go back inside."

"Sure thing boss."

Blaine hangs up and walks back into the hospital, the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

* * *

Blaine is many things, but a procrastinator is not one of them. He takes the first opportunity he has to execute his plan. It's Burt who gives him that opportunity. That night, Burt forces him to go home and get some sleep, claiming he wants to spend the night with his son. Blaine doesn't fight him, merely kisses Kurt soundly and shakes Burt's hand before heading back to Mercedes's apartment with Sam. He heads to his room, pulling something from a suitcase. Sam watches from the doorway.

"You heading out?" The question is falsely casual.

"Yeah, don't wait up." Blaine tries to leave the room, but Sam blocks his path.

"Don't do this."

"Sam, please move your arm."

"How are you going to be able to take care of Kurt if you're spending twenty-five to life behind bars?"

"Sam, please move your arm."

"Did you even tell Kurt you were going to do this? He's going to be so pissed off when he finds out—"

"He's not _going_ to find out, Sam, because you're not going to tell him." Kurt knows, of course, who Blaine is, where he comes from. He knows about the Anderson family and the things that they do in cities all over the world. He knows about Blaine's past, but concerns himself with Blaine's future, which Blaine has made quite clear will have nothing to do with the family business. He trusts Blaine, and Blaine has no intention of ever breaking Kurt's trust again.

There are always exceptions.

"You think you can keep murder from him?"

Blaine yanks Sam into the room and slams the door shut. "Let me make myself clear. I will not allow those animals to see another sunrise, do you understand? My primary motivation may be exacting revenge on Kurt's behalf, but I have to think about every other gay person in Brooklyn. I'm doing this for them too. I have…abilities, resources that I have the responsibility to make use of."

"So call the _cops_, man, get them involved—"

"Too messy. I'm not having Kurt testify, he's never going to be within ten miles of them again. I'm leaving, and when I come back, we're never speaking of this again."

He heads for the door, but stops when he hears Sam quietly ask, "What about me?"

He spins around. "What about you, Sam?"

"How am I supposed to just live my life knowing that my _best friend_ killed four people? How am I supposed to look at you the same way?"

"I told you about my past. Just accept that this is a part of that. I told you I recused myself from my family's affairs, and this is true. Just let me do this last thing and we can move on."

They stare at each other for a long while, Blaine growing increasingly impatient, until Sam nods. "Just…be careful, okay? There are still four them and just one of you."

"I'll be home in a few hours."

* * *

The address Lenny gave him was for this little warehouse on the north side of Bushwick. He sees the pick-up parked out front and knows they're there. He peers through a window, sees four hopelessly groomed men sitting on shitty couches around an old television set, watching hockey. The warehouse is sparely furnished, with a rickety fold-out table, a dented mini-fridge, and a couple of wire-framed beds taking up hardly any of the floorspace.

He moves to the front, picking the lock of the door with ease. They don't hear him enter, too enthralled by the puck flying on the ice to hear him approach from behind. He extracts the gun from the waistband of his jeans, where it had been pressing coolly against the small of his back, silencer already in place. He flips off the safety and aims the gun at the back of the neck of the tallest guy in the room. He pulls the trigger.

The other three assholes leap to their feet with unmanly shrieks. "The fuck are you?!" one shouts, while the other two reach for whatever's handy. Blaine fires into the air, and the bullet pierces the thin metal roof. The three fall silent.

"You nearly killed my fiancé." His voice is light, casual, as if he were commenting on the weather. "You shouldn't have done that."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" The one who speaks is big, with a woeful beard and a wardrobe to match a homeless man's. "We never did nothing to nobody."

"He thinks you hit him with a brick, but he's not sure. It doesn't really matter either way. You've been terrorizing this neighborhood for long enough." He points the gun at the shortest of the three.

"Wait!" the bearded one pleads. "We—we're sorry."

"Shut _up_, Frankie," says the one at whom Blaine isn't pointing his gun.

"What do you want? Money? We'll—we'll figure out a way to pay for his medical bills, yeah?"

Blaine's laugh is charming. "I don't want your money. I have more money than the four of you—well, three now—have ever seen in your life. What I _want _is for my fiancé to be sleeping in his own bed right now, instead of in a hospital bed. What I _want_ is for him not to be covering is gashes and bruises. What I _want_ is for him to feel safe while walking the streets of New York. Since I can't have any of that, I'll take the next best thing." He pulls the trigger.

The two remaining men are screaming before their friend's body even hits the ground. "You see, fellas, I'm not just another New York fag you can beat the shit out of." He turns the gun on the one not named Frankie. "I'm the son of Carter Anderson."

They both swear under their breaths. Every lowlife in New York knows Carter Anderson, has probably performed some menial task for the family at some point in their criminal careers. He runs a tight ship in the city, lets the ethnic gangs do their thing so long as he gets a cut of their profits. Blaine heard once that at least sixty percent of all violent and drug-related crimes in the city could be connected in some way to the Anderson family. He's never been proud of his heritage, but it put him through Dalton and will put him through NYADA, so he keeps his mouth shut.

"Listen, you don't have to kill us. We promise to stop…" Frankie trails off.

"Beating gay guys into comas?" Blaine supplies helpfully.

"Yeah, that. We'll do whatever the boss wants, we'll do it. Just don't kill us."

Blaine laughs again. "The boss has no idea I'm here, boys. He doesn't know a thing about what happened last night. No, this is between you and me. You almost took the life from the most amazing man in the world, so I'm going to take your pitiful lives from you." He pulls the trigger.

Frankie is full-on panicking now. "Please, _please_ don't, I'll do anything you want, I'm so so sorry, _please_—"

"Did he beg?" Blaine asks curiously.

"W-who?"

"The innocent man you were beating the shit out of before Kurt—that's my fiancé—intervened. Did he beg you to stop?"

"Y-yes."

"But you didn't. And when my fiancé arrived you beat him, too. What possible motive would I have to let you live?"

Frankie opens his mouth, but then closes it. He shakes his head.

"That's right, I don't have one. Because you don't deserve to live."

"_Please_."

Blaine pulls the trigger.

The gun's still hot, so he can't put it back in his waistband. Instead he slips it into the inner pocket of his jacket, leaving the warehouse quickly. He doesn't look back at the bodies.

* * *

When he arrives at the hospital bright and early the next morning, Kurt's more alert. He chides Blaine for not getting enough sleep, but Blaine just kisses his worries away. Sam shows up an hour or so later, and he gives Blaine a long, hard look. Blaine raises his eyebrows ever-so-slightly, and then Sam leaves, claiming he needs coffee.

"Hey," Kurt says, catching his attention. "I think…I think I heard you. Before I woke up. You were singing, but I don't remember what."

Blaine smiles. "It's from _Sweeney Todd_."

"Sing it for me again?"

Blaine takes Kurt's hand in his own, plays with his fingers. "_Nothing's gonna harm you, not while I'm around…_"

* * *

Tumblr is **nothingbutgoneness**.


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm back, by popular demand! Several of you asked for a sequel, so here you go. I want to thank you so, so very much for the enthusiastic support I've received for this fic. I cannot believe the feedback I've gotten in the past few days. You all are so very amazing, and it means the world to me that you've taken the time to read and review my little fic. You guys rock.**

**This part doesn't contain violence, but it _does_ contain sexy times and swearing. I wouldn't say there's a D/s dynamic in this fic, but there is definitely some power stuff going on, so read with caution, friends. **

* * *

Kurt only ends up spending two nights in the hospital. The doctors say that his scrapes and bruises will heal on their own, and his worst injury is a mild concussion, which they can take care of at home. He's chomping at the bit to return to the loft, spends the whole cab ride home verbally going over the list of products he'll need to use to catch up on his skin care regimen. He insists he's _fine_, Blaine, but Blaine still makes him take the elevator up. Rachel isn't there, thank god, so Burt and Blaine can get him settled on the couch without her narcissistic nattering to add to Kurt's increasingly loud demands for a shower.

"You've still got a few bandages that can't get wet," Blaine tells him. "We'll see in a few hours."

"I smell _terrible_, Blaine. The neighbors are going to call the CDC on us."

"I'll make sure to tell Professor Cappaletti that the attack didn't affect the dramatic parts of your brain, I'm sure he'll be relieved."

"_Blaine_."

Blaine kneels beside the couch and takes his fiancé's hands in his own. "You smell beautiful, just like you always do. And even if you didn't, the neighbors would never be able to smell you from that far away. And I know you probably feel gross and uncomfortable but right now I need you to work with me. You just went through something really terrible and I need to take care of you. I'm going to follow the doctor's instructions to the letter, and you're just going to have to deal with that."

Kurt sticks his tongue out petulantly, but Blaine's fast; he quickly moves his head and swallows the tongue into his own mouth. Kurt squeaks in surprise but melts into the kiss easily, until a gruff "Alright, boys, knock it off" causes Blaine to pull back.

Burt hands a cup of tea to Kurt and then sits in the chair beside the couch. "How much longer do you think I should stay in town?"

"You should go home, Dad," Kurt says, taking a sip of his tea. "You've got the shop to run. I'll be alright here."

"So soon?" Burt seems reluctant. "I can stay longer. Jimmy can take care of the garage, you know that."

"You don't really have a reason to stay, Dad."

"My son nearly being killed wasn't enough?"

"Dad…"

"Burt, I know you're concerned for Kurt, but I can take care of him. Obviously, you can stay as long as you like, but don't stay because you think you need to look after him."

Burt gives him a long look, and Blaine's honestly not sure what to make of it. Eventually he asks, "Kurt, what movie do you want to watch?"

Kurt's immediate response is _The Sound of Music_, but then Blaine suggests _Rent_ and they spend ten minutes bickering until Blaine (of course) relents, but it doesn't really matter because the really awesome painkillers Kurt was prescribed kick in before "Morning Hymn" is over. Blaine arranges him so he's sleeping a little more comfortably on the couch, and then he and Burt switch over to a basketball game.

Blaine's sitting on the end of the couch closest to Burt, with Kurt's feet in his lap. They're silent for a while, until Burt says, "Sam said something about you the other day."

Every muscle in Blaine's body tense, but his voice is calm. "Oh?"

"He was worried you might…take things into your own hands."

Blaine's eyes finally leave the game and find Burt's face. "I don't follow."

"Blaine, there are things you find out when you're running for Congress, things that you need to know before the press gets a chance to surprise you. There were a lot of people doing a lot of digging, and they found some interesting things. About you."

Blaine stays silent.

"When I found these things out, I was worried for Kurt, of course. But I knew you by that point, knew how Kurt felt about you, knew that you were forever for him. I also knew that a guy like you would be good for my son, because in case you haven't noticed, he's brave to the point of stupidity sometimes, and he could use a strong, _trained_ hand to haul him out of trouble."

Still Blaine says nothing.

"Now I'm not saying I approve of any attempt to work outside the law. I have a lot of faith in the justice system of America, maybe more than I actually should. But I'm aware that the chances of the people who did this to my son being caught by the police are slim to none. And if someone had the ability to make sure that they paid for what they did, and were never able to do it again…well, I'd say that person might just be a hero."

Blaine nods to the beer in Burt's hand. "You want a refill?"

Burt gives him a look so complex Blaine could never hope to decipher it. "Yeah. Yeah I would."

* * *

It's about three weeks after that that Kurt finds out. Of course Kurt finds out, because Kurt may be brave to the point of stupidity but he's not an idiot. It's Sam who gives it away, Sam who's been fidgety for weeks, always finding reasons not to be alone with Blaine and Kurt at the same time. Kurt's asked Blaine about it, maybe they had a fight or something, but Blaine denies knowing anything.

Kurt hates tension, so one morning, when Sam drops by the loft to pick up his cell phone charger, which he left during the last Monday night potluck, he just asks, "Why are you being so weird?"

Sam shoots up straight, twitchy like a rabbit. "I'm not weird."

Kurt is nowhere near the region of fucking around anymore. "Sam, if you don't tell me what's going on right now—"

"Blaine killed them!"

Kurt's face twists in confusion. "What the hell?"

"Blaine killed the guys who attacked you. All four them. They're dead."

Kurt wants to laugh. He should, for appearances or something. But there's an earnestness in Sam's face, and then, of course, there's logic. Blaine's been calm, so calm about this. There's been no anger, no bloodlust, no declarations of revenge whispered in the middle of the night. In fact, Blaine hasn't seemed concerned about the attack all, outside the context of Kurt's physical and emotional wellbeing. For someone with such a pronounced protective streak, it's not right at all.

So instead he says hollowly, "Sam, you can never speak about this with anyone."

"Jesus, Kurt, I know that—"

"If anyone finds out—"

"Kurt, he's my best friend, I'm not going to tell anyone—"

"Good." He slumps a little, back sore from standing so straight. "Would you mind heading out now? I think I'm starting to get a headache."

"Sure thing, man." Sam grabs his charger and heads for the door. Before he closes it behind him, he murmurs, "He really is my best friend. Your secret is safe with me."

When he's alone, Kurt heads to his area of the loft, pulling the curtain closed. He crawls into pajamas and waits in the bed for Blaine, who has a late class on Tuesday evenings. He feels numb mostly, unsurprised and surprised that he's unsurprised. It takes the opening and closing of the loft door and the appearance of Blaine's face around the curtain for an actual emotion to arise: anger.

"Hey, how're you—"

"What the _fuck _did you do?"

Blaine looks absolutely bewildered, looking around erratically for some explanation for the outburst. "I—I don't know, what did I—"

"You _killed_ them?!"

Silence reigns over the loft for a long minute. Kurt's standing by the bed, fists clenched and chest heaving, and Blaine's got one hand on his satchel and the other loose by his side. Eventually Blaine lowers the bag to the ground and takes a step toward his fiancé. "Sam told you?"

"Yes Sam _told_ me, he told me that you killed the men who hurt me. God Blaine, what were you _thinking_?!"

Blaine chokes in disbelief, eyebrows raised high. "What was I—what I was _thinking_? I don't know, Kurt, I was thinking that my fiancé could die at any moment and if I didn't do something to assholes who put him in that hospital bed I would actually _explode_, that's what I was thinking!"

"Can you imagine what will happen if you get _caught_, you _idiot_? There's no statute of limitations on murder, Blaine, you'll be hiding this until you die!"

"I understand how the law works, Kurt—"

"And what, did you open up old lines of communication with your father's organization again? Huh? Is that how you found them? You promised me that was behind you, Blaine, you _promised_—"

"_Listen to me_." Blaine strides forward and grabs Kurt's arms, pulling him in close. "The universe needs to understand that you don't get to get hurt. Things like this don't get to happen to you. You are off-limits." Blaine shoves him onto the bed roughly, climbing atop him and pinning his arms to the mattress. "I will never reenter the family business, that is a promise I made to you that I will keep until I die. I reached out to a contact to help find the men who hurt you, and then I did the deed myself. You must understand that there is absolutely nothing on this earth I would not do to ensure that you are safe. Killing them was the second easiest decision I ever made."

"Second?" Kurt breathes.

Blaine picks up Kurt's left hand and kisses the ring there. "Spending the rest of my life with you. That's number one."

His lips latch onto Kurt's then, and Kurt groans into his, already half-hard in his pajama pants. Blaine bucks his hips down, grinding into Kurt, and suddenly clothes are flying everywhere. Blaine settles Kurt's head onto a pillow and begins nipping and scratching and sucking, anything he can do to leave a mark. "You are mine," he growls into the hickey on Kurt's inner thigh, "and I protect what's mine."

"Going to have to be so careful," Kurt gasps, eyes rolling into the back of his head. "If you go to jail I'll kill you."

"Mm, then you could come to jail, too."

"Shut up and fuck me."

There's about eight bottles of lube of varying levels of fullness in the nightstand, but no condoms. They're not exactly the most prepared couple around. He grabs one at random—raspberry-flavored, which Kurt bought as an homage to Blaine's hair gel—and makes a mess trying to slick up his fingers. He starts with two, shoving them into Kurt without preamble. "Gonna own this ass," he breathes hotly into Kurt's jaw. "I own it, and I will cut down anyone who threatens it."

"_Blaine_," Kurt whines, hips jerking upward in search of friction.

Blaine's mouth sinks around Kurt's erection just as he adds a third finger. They're both grateful for Rachel's late call tonight, because Kurt's just shy of shrieking at this point. Blaine messily lubes his own dick before grabbing Kurt's waist and dragging him closer. Kurt's legs fly to the side, wrapping around Blaine waist as Blaine quickly guides his dick to Kurt's hastily-stretched hole and slams in. Kurt howls and scrambles to grab onto Blaine, because _Blaine. isn't. stopping. _He pounds into Kurt, rocking the bed violently, his mouth latching onto whatever skin he can find. The noises ripping from Kurt's throat run the gamut from long, drawn-out moans to tiny, staccato pants. His head is thrown back, giving Blaine a long canvas of neck onto which he can paint as many bruises as he'd like. He surrounds Kurt, pulls him in and keeps jerking forward.

Kurt gets close incredibly fast, always does when Blaine takes complete control like this. He's floating, existing only where Blaine's skin touches his own, where Blaine's sweat flies onto his body.

Blaine, for his part, is similarly in a daze, melting into Kurt as his body moves of its own accord. He long ago stopped being able to tell where he ends and Kurt begins, and now he thinks maybe he doesn't end at all, maybe he's just been a part of Kurt this whole time, just waiting to come home.

Kurt comes first, without a hand to his dick. Blaine rams into his prostate, one, two, three more times and Kurt's gone, exploding between them with a silent scream. He squeezes around Blaine, who keeps going for another minute until he too comes, shuddering and gasping and clinging to Kurt for dear life. He slips to the side and pulls Kurt into his arms. "I love you," he whispers, over and over and over, into Kurt's skin so many times it's a wonder it's not etched into it like another tattoo.

"Don't—" Kurt's still trying to catch his breath. "Don't do stupid things. Please."

"As long as the world keeps its hands off of you." It's not a promise, but it'll do.

* * *

Tumblr is **nothingbutgoneness****.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Oh what the hell, I just can't stay away from this 'verse. This one's thanks to NikaVardy, who's been feeding me some good ideas that I just can't resist. This one's shorter than the others, and it is not nice to Adam, so if you're a fan of his (Alison)...sorry, not sorry. Warnings for slut-shaming and some violence.**

* * *

It's not until the second semester of Blaine's freshman year is over that they finally meet. NYADA's a small school, so it's surprising that it took so long—not that Blaine minds. He has no use for him, no particular need or desire for any kind of confrontation.

Of course, a confrontation is exactly what he gets, because Blaine tends to invite trouble sometimes. It's after the intra-school a cappella competition. NYADA has too many a cappella group to make any sense, and The Adam's Apples, being first alphabetically on the roster, are the first to perform. They're not bad, Blaine admits fairly to himself. They're not bad, but they'd sound better with Kurt's voice in the mix. Kurt's sitting next to him in the audience, though, fingers laced with Blaine's. Blaine never did find out why Kurt left the group, or even when. He should probably ask.

He doesn't get a chance to before the show is over. The Adam's Apples don't win, and Blaine's not ashamed to admit that a nice dose of smugness shoots up his spine when he spots Adam's disappointed frown. Kurt leads him by the hand to the side of the stage, so he can congratulate his former group-mates on a job well done.

Blaine's just standing off to the side, watching, when a firm hand on his elbow jerks him to the side. He stumbles to halt just backstage. "What the fuck?"

"You have some nerve."

Blaine hasn't even seen his assailant yet and he's rolling his eyes. That fucking accent. What a douche. He turns to face Adam. "I beg your pardon?"

"You come here, after stealing Kurt from me? Make me see your face?"

Adam's livid, but he just reminds Blaine of a pissed-off kitten. "First of all, Kurt wanted to come, and as his _fiancé_ I agreed. Second, I didn't steal him from you, because he's not an object you can own." He knows he's being incredibly hypocritical here, but he doesn't actually give a fuck. "And third, even if he was, I didn't _steal_ him from you, you were just borrowing him."

"Why you little—"

"Because here's what you don't understand about Kurt and I. We're it. We're done. I don't need anyone else, and neither does he. We found each other, and now we're going to spend the rest of our lives together. We may have been apart for a little while, but that's over now. So you can go home, your work here is done."

"Oh really?" Adam sneers, fists clenched at his sides. "You don't need anyone else? How about that random guy you screwed back in Ohio? Didn't you need him?"

A violent impulse sweeps over Blaine, and he swallows it instantly. "I make no claims of perfection, Crawford. I made a terrible mistake, and I hurt Kurt. But he's forgiven me, because that's the kind of amazing person he is. I'll never atone for what I did, but as long as Kurt can move on, so can I."

"I can't believe he took you back," Adam spits. "I can't believe he'd forgive some stupid slut who—"

"HEY!" They both turn to see Kurt's irate face from the stage door. He stomps up and gets into Adam's face. "How _dare_ you?" Blaine takes a step forward, in case he needs to pull Kurt back. "If you ever call him a slut again so help me god I am lighting your apartment on _fire_."

Sometimes Blaine forgets that he's not the only scary one in this relationship.

"Come on, Kurt, he fucked another guy while he was still with you! How can you go back to his sorry ass?"

Blaine, it should be said, has no interest in defending himself. He's having way more fun watching Kurt get worked up, watching his pale cheeks flush and his body quiver like a bowstring pulled taut. Adam has unleashed a wild beast and he doesn't even know it.

"His _ass_, which happens to be _mine_, by the way, doesn't concern you. The decisions I make regarding my personal life are none of your business. I understand that you were upset that I went back to Blaine, and I was fine with your decision to kick me out of The Adam's Apples—"

"Wait, _that's _why you left?"

"—but you do not get to harass my boyfriend like a petulant child! Grow up and leave us alone!"

Adam's face twists into something nasty. "I guess it makes sense that you'd go back to him. I know you slept with him when you went back to Ohio for that wedding, even though we were dating or whatever at the time. I guess like they say, sluts of a feather—"

The sound of the bones in Adam's nose snapping echo backstage, and it is incredibly satisfying. Blaine finds himself straddling Adam's chest, delivering fisted blows to his face. "Call me whatever you want," he grunts, ignoring Kurt trying to pull at his shoulders, "but you do not say a _word_ about him."

Suddenly they're surrounded, and it takes three guys to pull Blaine off. Blaine sends a final kick at Adam's kneecap and then he's in Kurt's arms. Kurt hisses, "Stay the hell away from us, Adam," and shepherds Blaine away from the crowd of a cappella singers. Kurt waits until they're outside to snap, "Why would you do that?"

Blaine rolls his eyes. "He called you a slut, Kurt. What, was I supposed to let that go?"

"_Yes_, because I'm a big boy who can handle an insult or two."

"You defended _me_ when he called _me_ a slut."

"I didn't punch him!"

"So my methods were a little more physical, sue me!"

"Gah!" Kurt shouts, pulling Blaine's face in for a hard kiss. "You're so dumb. You have to stop hurting people for me. I know…I know it's what you've been trained to do, but I can take care of myself."

Blaine looks at him darkly. "If this is about when I did to those assholes—"

"It is, but it's about other things too."

"I don't regret it." He takes Kurt's face in his hands, stares right into his eyes. "I don't regret a damn thing. Not them, not Adam. I will never regret hurting the people who hurt you. That may not be what you want to hear, that may not be the person you want me to be, but that's just the way it is."

"I know," Kurt whispers with a soft smile, and he does. He knows who Blaine is, and as infuriatingly stupid as he can be at times, he also knows that he wouldn't change Blaine for the world.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry this one took a bit longer. I started it on Monday but I've been incredibly sick for the past few days. I'm still sick now, actually, but since my wifi was temporarily down and I couldn't finish the episode of _30 Rock_ I was watching, I decided to finish this instead. So if the ending sucks, blame sick!me. I want to thank you all again for your surprising and continued support. I never expected this story to have the following that it has, and I'm incredibly grateful.**

* * *

Once Kurt is in an environment where he feels comfortable, he lets himself relax. There are few places where he can do so: his home in Ohio, the loft in New York, the diner, and wherever Blaine is. Everywhere else, he is a tense ball of vigilance. He'd been through too much at McKinley to let his guard down, and that urge for caution was only exacerbated by the attack in the alley. Blaine doesn't mind this, is glad that Kurt is aware of his surrounding at all times, even though he sees the stress emanate from Kurt's pores when he comes home from a rough subway ride. He values Kurt's safety over everything else, because when Kurt is in trouble, a switch in Blaine flips that Blaine can't always flip back.

Unfortunately, it is just outside one of these safe environments that Kurt is taken. He's closing the diner tonight, and his scheduled clean-up partner, Dani, has been somewhat unreliable since Santana disappeared to god knows where with Brittany months ago. He flicks off the lights and locks the main door, giving it a tug to ensure its closure. Then he turns to stare down the barrel of a gun.

"Get in."

His wide eyes flicker to the open side door of a dark paneled van. He allows himself to be shoved toward it and tugged inside. A cloth bag is yanked over his head, and suddenly, blackness.

* * *

Blaine doesn't worry, really. He gets concerned. Kurt's a punctual person, so when he says he'll be home by one in the morning, and it is now ten minutes after, Blaine begins compiling a list of actions to take if Kurt is not home in the next five minutes. This isn't the first time Kurt's been late; one night there was a jumper on the subway that stopped the trains for half an hour. Kurt couldn't get cell service underground, and Blaine was ready to tear New York apart by the time Kurt stumbled into the loft, weary and annoyed.

That was before the attack, and now Blaine doesn't take any chances. It's 1:15, and he's calling everyone. Dani skipped her shift. Rachel was at rehearsals all night. Elliott hasn't seen him. He throws his phone onto his bed with a strangled groan of frustration, only to snatch it back up when it rings a moment later. The caller ID reads _Fiancé._

"Kurt, where the hell—"

"Is this Blaine Anderson?" The voice is cool and quick. When Blaine doesn't answer, it asks again. "Is this Blaine Anderson?"

"Yes."

"Son of Carter Anderson."

"Yes."

"We have your fiancé."

Blaine doesn't bother telling this disembodied voice to let Kurt go, he's not an idiot. "What do you want?"

"Your father has halted the import of some very important cargo into the city. He has twenty-four hours to lift the ban, or this pretty boy will receive a wedding present of a bullet to his brain. We will communicate again only if you follow through with your end of this deal, to tell you where we have left your fiancé. Goodnight, Mr. Anderson."

"Put him on the phone."

"Excuse me?"

"If I do not speak to my fiancé, I will assume that you have already killed him, and instead of doing as you ask, I will begin my crusade to find you and carefully tear you limb from limb. Am I clear?"

There is a short moment of silence, and then Kurt's shaky voice says, "Blaine?"

Blaine, who had been standing ramrod-straight, lets out a ragged breath. "Kurt, are you okay?"

"I—they had a gun, Blaine, I couldn't say no—"

"You did the right thing, babe, okay? You did the right thing. I don't want you to worry, I'm going to fix this." He pauses. "You're not hurt, right? They're taking good care of you?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay. I just—I want to go _home_, Blaine _please_—"

"I'm going to get you out, Kurt, I promise. I'm so sorry they did this, this is my fault—"

"No, no it's not just—just hurry, Blaine, yeah?"

"Yeah," Blaine breathes, and then Kurt's voice is gone.

"Twenty-four hours, Mr. Anderson. Your clock starts now."

The line goes dead.

Blaine barely has time to hang up on his end before he's grabbing his keys and darting out the door. He has to get to Manhattan as soon as possible.

The Anderson family enterprise operates out of the top five floors of a skyscraper in the heart of Manhattan. It may be nearly two in the morning, but Blaine has full confidence that his father will be there. He hardly ever leaves. It turns out that managing a criminal organization with influence over everything east of the Mississippi and many major Eurasian cities is about as intense a time commitment as the presidency of, say, the United States.

Blaine's on the elevator up and he still doesn't know what he's going to say. He hasn't talked to his father in years. Carter Anderson has Cooper to be his heir, and Blaine never wanted to be the boss. Coming out was just the tipping point. Cooper keeps Blaine filled in with need-to-know information, and beyond that, Blaine doesn't _want_ to know.

He doesn't know what this about, what cargo needs to be let into New York, why Kurt's kidnappers think going after Blaine is the smart move to make. Carter Anderson's never really been homophobic, but he doesn't have any reason to place Kurt's life over the value of whatever embargo he's put into place.

The doors slide open with a ding, and Blaine steps into an empty lobby. The secretary's gone home for the night, so he just walks to the main door—locked, of course—and starts banging away.

"DAD!" he shouts. "COOPER! LET ME IN. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY."

It takes a good five minutes for a tall, wiry man with snow white hair and distinguished wrinkles to appear. "Mr. Anderson," he says coolly in a voice thickly tinged with an Italian accent. "What a surprise."

"Not now, Mario," he spits, shoving his way into the offices. "Where's my father?"

"He's on a phone call with the Japanese at the moment, but if you wait just a few minutes I'm sure—"

He barges into his father's office. "We need to talk."

Carter Anderson looks like Cooper aged thirty years. Blaine's always taken after his mother. The look of unimpressed impatience that he gives his son, however, is so like Blaine's own that it is startling. He murmurs something in Japanese into his cell before hanging up. "Blaine. I haven't seen you in years."

"Believe me, if the circumstances were different, the trend would continue."

Blaine, at this point, is the personification of rage. He is ready to burn the city to the ground, even if his family is caught in his path.

"Please, sit." Carter motions to a chair in front of his desk. "Tell me what's wrong."

Blaine couldn't sit if he wanted to. "My fiancé's been kidnapped because of some fucking embargo you've placed on some cargo. Lift it now."

Carter's eyebrows shoot upward. "You're getting married?"

"What, Cooper didn't tell you?" he snarls. "Yes, I'm getting married, and you have twenty-three hours to let whatever cargo into the city that these people want before they kill him."

"Him." Carter's voice is flat. "I should have known."

Blaine slams his fist onto Carter's desk. "THEY'RE GOING TO KILL HIM. They're going to kill the only person I have ever loved, an innocent, wonderful man who doesn't deserve what's happening to him. Don't let your hatred for me get him killed."

"I don't hate you, Blaine," Carter says softly, and Blaine doesn't buy it for a second. "I may not approve of you marrying another man, but never think that I hate you."

"So help me." Blaine hates himself for the way his voice breaks. "Help him. I want nothing to do with this family, I have made that quiet clear, so getting him dragged into this is your fault. I am not above begging, Dad. I just need him to come home."

Carter sits in a silence for a long while. Then he steeples his fingers and says, "Drugs. That's the cargo. Some particularly nasty new drug from Bolivia that a rival family is trying to import. You know I've never shied away from the drug trade, but this one kills far too quickly. Hundreds of users in South America died after their first use. There's no money here, and I don't want to let this family have any kind of power in my city."

"You're going to pick money over the life of your future son-in-law?"

Carter has the decency to look ashamed. "I cannot help you, Blaine. I'll lose a substantial amount of money if I do this."

An idea flashes bright in Blaine's mind, and he can't beat it down into submission. It's stupid, the stupidest thing he's ever thought of, but a desperate man will do anything. "I'll work it off."

Carter's eyebrows fly upward. "What are you proposing?"

"Six months? Is that enough? I will work for you to pay off what you'll lose. I still need…I still need to go to school, but I'll do whatever it takes to bring Kurt home."

Standing slowly, Carter looks as though everything he ever knew was a lie. "You're telling me that after storming out of my house shouting about leaving your family forever, you're going to come back, all to save this man?"

"_Yes_."

"Well," Carter says, picking up the phone, "I may not approve of your marriage, but I cannot deny how much you must love him."

Blaine waits in Carter's office, because where else would he go? The call comes in about forty-five minutes after the embargo is lifted. Blaine has never moved so fast in his life, has to get all the way back to Brooklyn to get Kurt. They left him blindfolded and zip-tied to a park bench in Prospect Park, and with the adrenaline pumping through his body Blaine frees him with his bare hands. Kurt collapses into his arms, wheezing and shaking.

"I've got you," Blaine murmurs into Kurt's disheveled hair. "I've got you. I'm so sorry, I've got you."

He sits on the ground, Kurt in his lap, until the sun peaks over the horizon, casting Brooklyn in a warm pinkish glow. They walk home not too long after sunrise and collapse into bed, wound around each other tightly. Blaine falls asleep to the feeling of Kurt's still-ragged breath on his skin and the thought that when they wake, he's going to have to tell Kurt the real cost of his release.

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	5. Chapter 5

**I'm back again! This update is much shorter (exactly 666 words, funnily enough), but I wasn't quite done with writing this 'verse for the day, so enjoy!**

* * *

Blaine wakes up to an empty bed. He leaves Kurt's section of the loft to find him flipping pancakes on the stove. A glance at the clock tells him it's nearly two in the afternoon. Rachel's still in class. Blaine walks up behind Kurt and slides his arms around him. "Hey."

Kurt's stiff in his grasp. "Hey."

Blaine lets go and sits at the table. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I was kidnapped," Kurt says flatly, dropping a short stack of pancakes on a plate in front of Blaine. "What's there to talk about?"

"Kurt—"

"Did you kill anyone?"

The question is hollow, echoes in Blaine's head. "No." A pause. "I did have to speak to my father."

Kurt stares out the window in the living area, back facing Blaine. "Oh?"

"Neither of us knew why they chose you as a bargaining chip. They must not have known that I wasn't working for the family."

Kurt spins around so quickly Blaine's shocked he doesn't snap in half. "_Wasn't_?"

"Getting you out wasn't free, Kurt," Blaine says sharply, standing. "My father wasn't going to do what they asked unless I gave him something in return."

The color is gone from Kurt's face. "What did you do?"

"I'm working for him for the next six months."

They stand in silence for ages, staring blankly at one another. Kurt finally collapses into a chair, burying his face in his hands. Blaine walks over and kneels in front him, hands on Kurt's knees. "Listen, don't think for a second that I wanted this, okay? Don't think for one second that I would have even gone back there if your life weren't in danger. I did what I had to do to bring you home, and I don't regret it one bit."

"What are we going to do?"

Blaine's never heard Kurt sound more lost. "You're going to keep going to school, keep working at the diner. I'm going to keep going to school, too, but when you're at the diner, I'll be at the headquarters, doing what my father tells me to do."

"What if he tells you to kill someone?"

Blaine knows this is an issue for Kurt, knows that he's moved on from Blaine's past but still stays up at night thinking of guns in Blaine's hands, of Blaine playing god, of Blaine executing people without mercy. Blaine doesn't like to think about, doesn't like the nightmares that still jar him awake every once in a while, but for Kurt it's worse, for Kurt there are no memories, just the fear of falling in love with a killer and never wanting to fall out.

"I haven't talked to him about it, but I will make it clear that I would like to avoid killing people at all costs. Hopefully he'll have me…doing paperwork or, or sitting in on meetings. I don't know. It's just six months. Six months and then we can focus on—on finding our own place, and planning a wedding, and starting our life together. Please tell me you can make it six months. I can't—I can't do this without you, Kurt."

His forehead falls forward into Kurt's lap. One of Kurt's hands finds its way into Blaine's hair, playing with the curls and massaging the scalp. He murmurs, "I was really scared last night."

Blaine looks up, puts a hand on Kurt's face. "So was I. But I bet it was worse for you."

"Yeah. The van smelled like old cottage cheese." They're silent for a moment, and then they burst out laughing. Blaine tugs on his arm and then Kurt's on top of him, the two a hysterical pile on the carpet. At some point, their laughing turns to crying, and Blaine holds Kurt tight as he sobs. Tears leak out of Blaine's own eyes as he doesn't think about the hell that the next six months are going to be. He just lays with his fiancé and cries.

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	6. Chapter 6

**This one took me a while because I'm still sick, so instead of writing I've been binge-watching _30 Rock_. Sorry. I was originally going to write about Blaine's first job for his father, but this happened instead. Luckily, it gave me a pretty good idea for the next chapter, so stay tuned and enjoy!**

* * *

Blaine stares at himself in the mirror, thinks of all the things Kurt loves about him. He's spontaneously romantic, if at times inconveniently so. He cooks a fantastic breakfast. He's been making smarter wardrobe decisions lately, looks less and less like a grandfather every day. He can talk Rachel down from the crazy ledge when Kurt's just too tired to do it himself. He sucks cock like it's the sole purpose for his existence. Kurt loves him, he knows this, and that's what he holds onto as he gets ready to leave.

Warms arms around his waist and a chin on his shoulder. "You ready?"

"No."

Kurt kisses the side of his neck before smoothing his cardigan over his chest. "You'll be fine. Six months. You can make it."

"What if he wants me to kill people?"

The question is quiet and small, exactly the way Blaine's been feeling since he struck the deal with his father. It's been the one thing on his mind for a week, and he knows it's been the only thing on Kurt's. Kurt wasn't happy when he found out what Blaine did to the people who hospitalized him, but he understood Blaine's need for vengeance.

But this is different. This is killing for business, not retribution. Blaine would be nothing more than a mercenary. The marrow in Blaine's bones quakes.

"I'm sure he won't." Bless Kurt and his optimism, no matter how bad he is at lying. "I'm sure you'll be fine."

Blaine turns in Kurt's arms, his own hands sliding smoothly to the small of Kurt's back. "I'm doing this for you. I want you to remember that. I'm doing this because I love you more than I hate my family, by a hundred-fold."

"I know. I love you."

Blaine kisses him hard, like it's his last chance to taste his skin. "I have to go."

"Text me every chance you get. Keep me informed."

"Always."

He leaves the apartment as normally as he'd leave for class, catches a cab, and settles in for the long ride to Manhattan.

* * *

Mario shows him into his father's office, where he waits for the boss to finish his phone call. When Carter hangs up, he stares at his son. "So."

Blaine says nothing.

"What are you going to do for me for six months?"

"Whatever you ask of me."

Blaine hates this. He hates this he hates this he hates this. He loathes being at the whims of someone else, especially his morally devoid father. He wants to rip the smirk off Carter's face, to drag Kurt into the office and _show_ Carter what real love looks like, to shove Kurt onto that stupidly, unnecessarily intricate desk and fuck him over and over and _over_ to prove whatever point the rage inside of him needed to prove.

Instead he sits silently, awaiting his orders. Carter picks a manila folder up from his desk and tosses it into Blaine's lap. "Here's your first assignment."

Blaine opens the folder and thumbs through the small packet of papers. "There's a street vendor just outside Time Square. He's got information that will be…useful to us. Retrieve it."

Blaine raises an eyebrow. "That's it? Do I get money to pay him off or—"

"Blaine, please," Carter scoffs. "Beat it out of him."

"I—_what_?"

Carter looks entirely unamused. "Blaine. What did you think you were going to be doing for me? You've been specially trained since you were in diapers. Your skills set is somewhat…limited."

Oh, if he could light this man on fire with his mind. "I have many skills, a great number of which would benefit your enterprise, but I will _not_, under any circumstances, kill people."

"I didn't say you have to kill this guy—"

"I'm not an idiot, _Carter_. You'll start out with me beating the shit out of some guy who probably has a wife and kids and the next thing I know I'm blowing the brains out of political hopefuls you don't like. God, how could you ask me to do this when my own _fiancé_ was beaten and left for dead in alley just a few months ago?"

"I _knew_ you were too soft for this business, you always were. When I agreed to help free your butt buddy—" Blaine opens his mouth hotly but Carter speaks right over him. "—it was under the condition that you do as I say for six month. If you can't keep up your end of the bargain—"

"What, you'll re-kidnap him?"

Carter's eyes narrow to slits. "Do. Not. Test. Me."

They stare at each other for the longest minute. Finally Blaine throws himself into his chair and says, "We need limits, right now. We're going to discuss a…contract, if you will. What will be expected of me, and when. I won't leave here until it's done."

"Now you're being rational." Carter seats himself behind his desk. "Let's begin."

* * *

Blaine slumps through the loft door, exhausted. Kurt leaps off the couch, where he had been obviously trying not to bite his nails to the quick, and rushes to him. "What happened? Are you okay? What did you do?"

"Kurt." Kurt falls silent as he follows Blaine to the couch, fluttering like a nervous bird. "I didn't actually do anything today. We spent the day setting up boundaries. We've got a contract, in writing."

"Oh?" Kurt picks up Blaine's hand, plays with his fingers.

"I'm to spend no less than twenty hours a week in the offices or out on a job. He agreed to my term of no kill orders—though he demanded I always leave armed, just in case—" Kurt sucked in a breath. "—but refused to take violent jobs off the table altogether. He still expects me to…use force, when a job requires it."

"Okay," Kurt breathes. "Okay."

"I don't get paid, and money will be provided for me if I need it for a job. If I get arrested, I'm on my own. And if I don't fulfill my half of the bargain, he will personally make sure that the both of us are expelled from NYADA and blacklisted from all performing arts schools this side of the Mississippi."

"_Jesus Christ_!" Kurt shrieks. "Blaine, this is a huge risk!"

"Yeah, well it was also a huge risk going to my father when you were being _held hostage_, but I think we can agree I made the right call there."

"No, no _of course_—"

"And it's not like I could say no. My back's against the wall here, Kurt. I'm sorry."

Kurt runs his fingers through Blaine's hair. "Don't be sorry. I should be sorry, I was the one stupid enough to get kidnapped."

"Eh." Blaine smiles weakly. "It gives me the chance to be your white knight."

"Oh _please_," Kurt scoffs, shoving Blaine so he flops sideways and heading for the kitchen. "You saw a spider in the bathtub two nights and screamed so loud the neighbors nearly called the cops."

"That thing was _huge_, Kurt."

"I squished it with the tip of Rachel's makeup brush—don't tell her about that, by the way. Now, do you want a cronut?"

Blaine whips upright, eyes wide. "_Yes_."

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	7. Chapter 7

**This one's short, but I hope you can forgive me, 'cause it's a doozy.**

* * *

Two months later, Blaine's slipping a plain white t-shirt over his head, letting it hang loose over his jeans. He learned quickly to dress simply for a job; it turns out cardigans and brightly-colored pants make a person rather identifiable. He slides into a black leather jacket—he doesn't mind the cliché so much—and runs his fingers once through his untamed curls.

(Kurt won't admit it aloud, not when Blaine's being forced to make these wardrobe decisions by his father, but he is utterly turned on by Blaine's new badboy image. Blaine sees the hooded gaze that follows him around the apartment when he's getting ready to head to work. And maybe he starts getting a little rougher in bed, a little more possessive when it's his turn to top. They might as well get some enjoyment out of this fucked-up situation.)

Kurt's still eating breakfast when Blaine leaves for his father's office. Their goodbye kiss is hard and passionate and just a tad angry, like it almost always it before Blaine heads out to work for his father. Neither one of them has actually adjusted to this new, albeit temporary, life. They don't even really talk about it. On a night when Blaine comes home from a job, Kurt silently helps him get ready for bed and holds him, singing Broadway classics softly in his ear until he falls asleep.

(Occasionally, Blaine will come home with something dark swirling inside of him, and the only way he can get it out is by fucking Kurt into the mattress. Kurt doesn't mind, is just relieved that there is something he can do to take some of the pressure off of his fiancé. He just grips Blaine's curls tightly as Blaine's hips drive forward over and over and _over_, and pretends that the tears that drip onto his skin are just sweat.)

"Be safe," Kurt murmurs, his standard warning.

"Of course," Blaine says with a smile, "I've got a beautiful fiancé to come home to."

* * *

The gun presses coolly on the small of his back, sending shivers down his spine. He's on a weekly job, collecting money from Jerry Polinski, a newspaper stand owner downtown. When his business started going under during the financial crash of '08, Carter bailed him out. Now he owes the family $200 a week.

Blaine hates this job even more than he hates threatening Willy the Snitch. He's gotten to know Jerry in the past two months, knows he's trying to put his oldest kid through college while his wife battles chronic illness. Jerry needs every penny he can scrape together, and the newspaper industry is dying fast.

He slinks up to the stand, guilt choking him like a collar. He waits for Jerry to finish selling a businessman his copy of the _Times_ and a pack of menthols before announcing his presence with a cough. "Hey Jerry."

Jerry stiffens, refuses to meet Blaine's eye. "Hey, Mr. Anderson."

"You got your payment ready?" Jerry doesn't answer. "C'mon, Jerry. Don't make this harder than it has to be."

"Please." The sound is small, and it sounds odd coming from Jerry's large frame. He's a hefty man, with a friendly graying beard and just enough hair left to excuse the combover. His sad green eyes stare at the counter. "Just one more day, please."

"Every Friday, no exceptions." Blaine forces himself to be tough, distant. He doesn't think about all the ways Jerry reminds him of Burt. "Pay up, or I'll be back tomorrow with reinforcements."

He hears a soft click, and then Jerry whispers, "No."

The next thing he knows, he's staring down the barrel of a tiny revolver.

Blaine takes a step back. "Jerry, I want you to think about this."

"I—I am." Oh Jesus, Jerry's more scared than Blaine is, has even less of a clue what he's doing. "If I kill you, you can't come 'round here askin' for money no more."

"Jerry, listen." Blaine tries to keep the panic out of his voice. The last thing either one of them needs is a scene. "My father is the don of this family. There may be no love lost between us, but he won't be able to just sit idly by and let his son's murder go unavenged. He will come after you, and your family. You can't do this."

Jerry's eyes flicker downward, and that's just the time Blaine needs to whip his own gun from his waistband. He aims it at Jerry's chest. "Listen, I'm sorry for doing this to you every week. I don't want to be a part of this any more than you do. But we all have roles we have to play, sacrifices to help the people we love."

Jerry just shakes his head, eyes rimmed in red. "I can't keep doing this. It needs to end."

Blaine's eyes widen in horror. "Jerry—"

Jerry's finger squeezes the trigger, and before the gun can make its deafening crack, Blaine pulls his own. He watches the man seize up before crumbling out of view behind the counter. He hears screaming and feels as though he's been doused in ice water. He knows he needs to get away fast, but as soon as he takes a step, he collapses on the ground, gun spinning out of his grasp. His eyes wander down to see something red staining his white shirt around his belly button.

He thinks of clear blue eyes as the world fades to black.

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	8. Chapter 8

**I have my first final on Monday and instead of studying I wrote this, so be grateful. I'm pretty sure it's my longest chapter yet. Thanks again for your love and support. You guys are so kickass.**

**Also I reuploaded like half the chapters because I kept forgetting to put in break bars. Sorry I'm a moron.**

* * *

His phone starts ringing just as he shuts off the shower. With a muttered curse he snatches his towel off the rack and rushes, dripping, to his bedroom. He hopes it's Blaine calling to say he's coming home early, because he's actually really horny right now. He digs his phone out from inside Blaine's pillowcase, utterly baffled as to why it was there in the first place, and answers, "Hello?"

"Hello, is this Kurt Hummel?"

"Yes, this is Kurt?"

"I'm calling from New York Downtown Hospital."

This must have been how Blaine felt, the sensation of sinking into a black, icy ocean, when he was called after Kurt's attack. Kurt couldn't find enough oxygen. "Is he—Blaine—"

"Sir, your fiancé, Blaine Anderson, was admitted here approximately half an hour ago. I can't give you information regarding his condition—"

_New York Downtown Hospital_, his brain vaguely thinks as the cool-voiced woman keeps talking. _That's Manhattan. He was on a job. _

"I'll be there soon," he interrupts. "I'll—I'll be there soon."

"Like I said, sir—" He hangs up. It's then he realizes he's still naked. He dresses mindlessly, pulling on clothes that are in reach. He thinks the shirt he's wearing is Blaine's, but he doesn't care. He slips into shoes and leaves, not bothering to lock the door behind him.

He hates going into Manhattan, hates the Brooklyn Bridge and everyone on it. His cabbie is playing music that isn't in English as Kurt stares at his phone. Every instinct tells him to call Blaine, to shut down and shove everything onto his incredibly patient, incredibly willing fiancé, but that option has been ripped from him and he doesn't know what to do.

So he calls Sam, because why not. "Sam."

"Hey Kurt, listen, did Blaine bring a box of glow-in-the-dark condoms to your place, because Mercedes and I may not be having sex but that doesn't mean he just steal—"

"Sam."

Sam gets quiet. "Yeah?"

"Blaine's in the hospital. New York Downtown. I. I don't know what happening. I don't know. Sam." Blacks dots appear on the edges of Kurt's vision, and he blinks them away.

"Okay, I'm coming, we're coming right now. Just hang in there, buddy."

And then Sam's gone, and Kurt's alone again. He doesn't have long to himself; within three minutes, his phone is flooded with texts, Rachel, Mercedes, Artie, Santana, his father—his father's calling, and he answers. "Dad." The sound is broken.

"I'm booking a flight now, bud."

_No_, Kurt thinks, _no, you can't do that, it's too much money, I can't ask you to, I can't want you to, I can't _need_ you to, I can't look you in the eye and lie to you about what your future son-in-law was doing to put himself in the hospital, this is all too much, please don't_. "Okay."

"God," Burt breathes, "the luck you two have. First you're in the hospital, and then Blaine, all in less than half a year? You two break a mirror or something?"

Burt doesn't know about the kidnapping, of course he doesn't. No one knows. It lasted less than a day and there's no reason to get everyone even more worried than they already were about Kurt. Of course, the irony is not lost on Kurt; Blaine has been hospitalized because he was trying to protect Kurt. He thinks of a slushie laced with rock salt and hates the world.

"Or something," Kurt murmurs, head falling against the cab seat and eyes sliding shut.

It takes about forty-five minutes to get to the hospital, and he's on the phone with Burt until the cab comes to a stop. Kurt pays the ridiculous fare with his credit card and then hangs up with his father, Burt's many words of advice already forgotten.

The woman at the front desk directs him to a private waiting room, which confuses Kurt until he enters is. He's never met Carter Anderson, has no idea what he looks like, but he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that the man standing in front of him is Blaine's father, ironed into his suit and frowning vaguely. There's some kind of bodyguard in the room with them, but Kurt doesn't care; he strides up to Carter without a word and slaps him across the face. The guard jerks into motion, but Carter waves him off, says, "Was that really necessary?"

"What happened to him?" Kurt snarls. There are so many questions clogging up his mind, but that's the first one that breaks free.

"He was shot." Kurt immediately finds a chair and sinks into it, hands shaking. "It was a through-and-through, in the abdomen. It nicked his small intestine, but they're repairing it now. The doctors are very optimistic."

"This is your fault." Kurt wants to vomit. "He got shot because of you you _bastard_—"

Carter sits across from him, annoyed. "Don't be melodramatic. He got shot because doing the job he agreed to do because of _you_."

"Because of _your _criminal enterprise!"

"Are we really going to sit here and play the blame game?" Carter asks in a bored tone. "What happened happened. The only thing that matters now is Blaine's healing."

"Like you've ever cared about Blaine." Kurt's skin is on fire, and his words are knives. "You are a horrific excuse for a father. Instead of raising your sons you raised an international crime syndicate. You left your boys to fend for themselves and when one of them turned out to be gay you dismissed him as defective. You weren't there for Blaine when he was beaten at his first high school, you swept the problem under the rug and sent him to Dalton. When he was nearly _blinded_ you didn't even send flowers. Where was the emotional support he needed when his fiancé was in the hospital? Right, he got that from his future father-in-law and his friends, not his own dad. All you've done for our relationship was get me kidnapped and force Blaine to be your lapdog for six months, only to get him _shot_! So yes, we are going to sit here and play the blame game, and I'm not being _melodramatic_, you vile, disgusting cretin, I'm sticking up for your son like you _never_ have."

His breath comes in heaves, and an awkward cough from the door has his head whipping around to see Sam and Mercedes standing at the door. "Um…hey."

Kurt melts in his chair. "How long have you been there?"

"Uh, yeah, we heard most of that." God, the last thing Kurt needs is Sam asking questions about an _international crime syndicate_. "Can we come in?"

Kurt nods tiredly. Mercedes rushes to his side, starts fussing over him. Sam stands uncomfortably beside him. "What happened to him?"

"He was shot," Kurt says, cutting off Carter. "He should be okay. That's all we know." He shoots Carter a pointed look, and the man takes the hint.

"I'm going to go find a doctor, see if we have more news." He leaves the waiting room, his lackey following behind like a loyal retriever.

"How are you, honey?" Mercedes asks in a soft voice.

"Fine. Just—just waiting."

He knows Mercedes wants to ask, and it only takes her about a minute to break down. "What did you mean when you said Mr. Anderson got you kidnapped?"

He briefly considers the truth, but Kurt's life has gotten a little too complicated for that. "Don't worry about it, Mercedes. It was just…it was nothing."

"And what about when you said it was his fault Blaine got shot?" Mercedes asks as Sam sits down on Kurt's other side. "What exactly does Mr. Anderson do for a living?"

"Mercedes, I highly recommend you stop asking questions I am in no way prepared to answer."

She falls silent, holding one of his hands tightly. Sam quietly murmurs that Rachel has to get out of costume before she can come, and Artie has to wait for a handicap-accessible bus that's going into Manhattan. Kurt just nods; he doesn't actually care.

Carter returns about five minutes later, doctor in tow. He's an older man with a token stethoscope around his neck. "Hello everyone, I'm Dr. Hopkins."

Kurt leaps to his feet. "I'm Blaine's fiancé."

Dr. Hopkins shakes his hand once. "I understand Mr. Anderson has filled you in on Blaine's condition?"

"Just the basics." Kurt doesn't look at his future father-in-law.

"Well, Blaine should be out of surgery shortly. We've repaired the damage to his small intestine and are making sure we patch him up very carefully. I imagine you and Mr. Anderson will be able to visit him in about an hour. Unfortunately, we can't allow any non-family members into the room for at least twenty-four hours." He smiles apologetically at Sam and Mercedes.

"What about recovery, doctor? He's—he's a dancer, and a singer—a performer, will he—"

Dr. Hopkins raises a calming hand. "I see no reason why he shouldn't live a full, normal life, so long as he takes care of himself and follows all medical instructions carefully."

There's a buzzing sound behind him, and then Sam's tapping on Kurt's shoulder. "Kurt, it's your dad."

"I'll be back when there's more news." Dr. Hopkins leaves with a polite wave.

Kurt answers his phone, listens to his father say his flight's leaving Ohio in half an hour. He hopes he says things that generally make sense, but he doesn't know. When he hangs up, the reality of the situation hits him. Blaine's got a final showcase coming up, and if he misses it he'll be even further behind Kurt than he was before. The loft is wheelchair accessible but Mercedes's house is not, and who knows how long Blaine will be chair-bound. Kurt's job isn't going to pay for meds and physical therapy, so he has to ask Carter. Fantastic.

"Is Blaine—" He swallows, throat dry. "Is Blaine under your insurance?"

Carter scoffs. "I don't have medical insurance. I have more than enough money to pay for all of my family's needs."

He doesn't want to ask, hates that he has to. "Does that include Blaine?"

Carter's eyes narrow. "You may not approve of my parenting, Mr. Hummel, but I am not a deadbeat father."

Kurt bites his tongue. He's just too exhausted to argue. "And how does this affect your…arrangement, with Blaine?" He can't get more specific, not with Sam and Mercedes sitting right there, clearly listening as they pretend to read texts on their phones.

"I imagine he'll be in recovery for, say, two months? There will be two months left after that for him to fulfill his obligations."

"You're going to make him continue?" Kurt screeches, voice breaking in several different places. "He gets shot and you say he's not done yet?"

"A deal is a deal."

"Why you son of a—"

"Okay, Kurt, let's go." Sam tugs him out of his chair and toward the door. "We're going for a walk. Text me if we need to come back inside." He leads Kurt out to the front of the hospital, where they start walking down the sidewalk. "So, you want to tell me what's going on?"

"No."

"Kurt, he's my best friend okay, and he's been _shot_. I think I deserve answers."

Kurt hasn't felt this damn_ tired_ in a long time. "Sam, telling you that the situation is complicated in no way indicates exactly how complicated this situation is."

"I know his father's a crime lord."

Kurt stops short. "What?"

Sam lowers his voice to a whisper. "I know, okay? He told me last year, after you two had broken up. I got him drunk—"

"Sam, you _know_ he and alcohol do _not _go well together—"

"—and he spilled a lot more than he meant to. It's okay, I haven't told anyone."

"And you _won't_." Kurt's eyes are daggers. "You say one word, Evans, I swear to god—"

"Didn't you wonder why I was so understanding about the whole…" He looks around shiftily. "…_killing people_ thing?" Kurt may just hurl himself in front of a taxi. "It's because I knew where he came from."

"Fine, if you must know," Kurt hisses, "I was kidnapped two months ago by someone who wanted leverage over Blaine and thus over Carter. In order to free me, Blaine had to agree to work for his father's enterprise for six months. He was out on a job when he got shot. That's all I'm telling you and if you breathe a word of this to anyone, especially Mercedes, I will personally feed you your own testicles."

"Jesus, man, I won't." Sam looks frightened, and Kurt is glad. "I can't believe you were kidnapped and you didn't even say anything."

"I was gone for a few hours, it didn't matter."

"I'm glad you're safe." Sam hugs him, and he begrudgingly admits to himself that he needed it. "Now, I understand why you hate Blaine's dad and everything, but you need to cool off. Just focus on Blaine, okay?"

"Yeah." Kurt starts to head back to the hospital. "C'mon. I don't want to miss anything."

* * *

When Blaine wakes up, it's nearly a full day after the shooting. Sitting beside his bed are Kurt and Burt; Carter decided to visit later, when Blaine was up for it. His eyes blink open groggily, and his right hand is squeezed incredibly tightly. "Blaine, honey?"

"K'rt."

Kurt's sigh comes out like a laugh. "Hey, how are you?"

"Sl'py."

"Yeah, I bet." Kurt brushes a curl off his forehead. "You gave us quite the scare, mister."

"S'ry." Blaine licks his lips lazily. "Now you know…"

Kurt moves from his chair to sit on the bed so he can lean in. "What'd you say?"

"Now you know…how I felt."

Kurt rolls his eyes and nudges Blaine's hip gently. "Pretty asinine way to get back at me, jerk."

Blaine smiles loosely. "What c'n I say? 'M dramatic."

Kurt kisses him soundly, smiles into it in relief. When he breaks away Burt says, "Next time I fly to New York, it better be for a wedding or a graduation, not one of my boys in the hospital, do you two hear me?"

Kurt nods, but Blaine's already asleep again. Kurt brings Blaine's limp fingers to his lips and kisses them. He's not even remotely ready for the long road ahead of them, but he watches Blaine's chest rise and fall steadily, and he can't bring himself to care.

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Tumblr is **nothingbutgoneness.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey, sorry this one took so long. First there was finals week and then moving back home and then the inevitable apathy of summer. This is a short one, because I'm still trying to figure out exactly how far I want to take this series. We're all on this wild ride together, folks. Please keep your arms and legs inside the car at all times. **

* * *

Blaine's only been really _awake_-awake for about two hours when there's a firm knock on his hospital room door. Burt stands and opens it, leaving Kurt at Blaine's side, to find two people in suits, one male and one female, wearing serious expressions. "Is this Blaine Anderson's room?"

Blaine lifts his head off his pillow, confused. "Yes?"

The two suits step inside. "I'm Detective Lloyd," the man says, "and this is my partner, Detective Griffin. We'd like to ask you a few questions about the murder of Jerry Polinski."

Everything inside of Blaine goes cold. "I—I don't—"

"What do you think you're doing?" Kurt snaps. "He just went through major surgery after being _shot_, do you think you could give him some space?"

"Unfortunately, we can't," Detective Griffin says, voice softer than her partner's, thought Kurt doesn't buy it for a second. "We've been trying to piece together the circumstances of Mr. Polinski's death for two days now, and Mr. Anderson was the only witness to the event. He was found with the gun in his hand. I think you can see where we're going with this."

Kurt is gripping Blaine's hand so tightly Blaine fears the bones may break. "I'm the one who shot him." The words are quiet, and silence echoes in the room.

"Tell us what happened," Griffin murmurs.

"There's not much to say." Blaine is staring out the window, right into the high afternoon sun. "We were talking, he pulled a gun on me, I pulled a gun on him. We shot each other." Long, cool fingers play with the hair around his ear.

Lloyd scribbles on a notepad, one eye still on Blaine. "Must have been some conversation."

"Yeah."

"What did you talk about?"

Blaine sighs. "He owed my father money. I went to collect it. He wasn't happy, so he decided to shoot me."

"Yes, your father…" Griffin opens a manila folder that had been hidden in her coat. "Carter Anderson. Easily one of the most powerful criminal overlords in the world. What does he want with some newspaper stand owner from Queens?"

Blaine shrugs, still not looking at the detectives. "I don't know. I don't care. I just wanted to do what my father asked and go home to my fiancé." The fingers brush his skin a little harder.

"Was the day of the shooting your first encounter with Mr. Polinski?" Lloyd asks.

"No."

"When was your first encounter?"

"A month and a half ago?"

"How many times did you and Mr. Polinski meet?"

"Every Friday."

"Why?"

"He still owed my father money."

Kurt desperately wants Blaine to stop talking, wants him to just _stop_ and _think_, because the last thing they need is both the police and his father's organization pissed at them. But Blaine's a thousand miles away, hearing the detectives' questions through a tunnel and answering because it's easier than pretending not to understand. Blaine's one wrong word from getting himself through behind bars for twenty-five to life, and every nerve in Kurt's body is on high alert.

"So you say that Mr. Polinski pulled out his weapon first?"

"Yes."

"How soon after did you pull out yours?"

"About a minute."

"Who shot first?"

Blaine is silent. He slowly turns away from the window to stare at Detective Lloyd, who is looking back impatiently. "Mr. Anderson, who shot first?"

When Blaine still doesn't answer, Kurt squeezes his hand, rubs his forehead and says quietly, "Blaine, honey? Are you okay?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know if you're okay?"

"I don't know who shot first."

Lloyd looks skeptical. "Mr. Anderson, I find it hard to believe—"

"I don't know if you've ever accidentally killed someone," Blaine snarls, voice suddenly very alive, "but the entire thing is kind of a blur. I don't remember what we said, I don't remember how we moved, I don't even remember the feeling of a bullet tearing its way through my small intestine, so _no_, I don't know who shot first, and the knowledge that I might never know is really making me want to throw up."

Kurt grabs the nearest container, an unused bedpan, and shoves it under Blaine's face just as he vomits, heaving forward and sobbing. Kurt rubs his back, kisses his hair, and glares at the detectives. "I think we're done for the day, don't you?"

Detective Griffin nods once. "We'll be back soon to ask you more questions, Mr. Anderson. Have a good day." They leave.

Burt steps out from where he'd been watching from a corner of the room. "Are you okay, Blaine?"

Blaine nods as Kurt gives him water to wash his mouth out with. "I'm fine." He won't look Burt in the eye.

Burt nods. "Why don't I give you two a few minutes, see if I can't get a nurse to clean this up." He takes the bedpan from Kurt and leaves the room.

Kurt perches on the side of Blaine's bed, one hand on the side of his fiancé's face. "Talk to me. What're you feeling?"

"I killed someone, Kurt." The words rip out of Blaine's throat in a gasp.

"I know, I know." Kurt pulls Blaine in for a strong hug, wrapping as much of himself as possible around Blaine's shaking form. "Why—" He stops, thinks about how he wants to phrase his question. "Why didn't you react like this when you shot the four men who hurt me?"

Blaine pulls back a bit, wipes furiously at his eyes. "I killed them because the world would be better off without them, because they hurt the most beautiful thing in my life and something like that just doesn't go unpunished. But Jerry…Jerry was a good guy, was _such_ a good guy, with a sick wife and kids and an honest job and the only thing he ever did wrong was get mixed up with my father's bullshit and he did _not _deserve what happened to him."

"Blaine, honey, _neither did you_." Blaine's eyes snap to Kurt's. "I believe you, that Jerry was a good man. He was also a man who was going to shoot you. You made a decision that saved your life, and as tragic as it was, I will never, ever regret that decision. You're still here with me. That's all that matters."

"Unless they throw me in prison." Blaine's voice is hollow again.

"Never going to happen." Kurt grabs Blaine's face, rests their foreheads together. "I am going to do whatever it takes to make sure that you stay a free man, because you are _innocent_, Blaine Anderson. I don't care what's going on in this dumb, bushy head of yours, it's the truth."

Blaine kisses him desperately, clawing at his arms. They fall back onto the bed, Kurt covering Blaine like a security blanket. Neither one is sure who starts crying first, as they kiss until they can't breathe, and then they kiss some more.

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